


Trucker Tuesday

by earlgreytea68



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: Patrick works at a sex store with a discount for truckers on Tuesdays.Pete is definitely not a trucker.





	Trucker Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! It my FOBiversary! The anniversary of the day this fandom sucked me in! And it's been a year of tremendous fun! Thank you, all, for being so lovely! So here! Have a fic!

Patrick Stump always vowed that he wasn’t going to be one of those kids in his town who graduated from high school and went to work for some local fast food chain or Walmart and that was it. And he’s not.

He works for the local sex shop.

Like, it’s not like it’s his dream job, but it pays the bills.

Okay, it doesn’t pay the bills, but it pays _some_ bills, and it’s a decent enough thing to do while he’s still living at his mom’s house and trying to figure out how to get out of this fucking town. In the meantime, the sex shop is a pretty good gig. It’s just like any other shop, only with more dildos, and a lot of the time the customers are sweet and kind. They just want to have some great sex, and it’s his job to get them there, without using his actual penis. Sure, he gets propositioned a fair amount, but, like, no one’s ever been rude after he politely turns them down, and when it’s slow his boss lets him sit on his Macbook and noodle around with GarageBand. Which is kind of better than his mom lets him do, because she thinks his music is going nowhere.

The only bad part of his job, honestly, is the trucker who’s definitely not a trucker.

On Trucker Tuesday, truckers get ten percent off. The store sits right off the exit of a major interstate, and there’s nothing interesting around for miles. Truckers come in and buy some quality porn or excellent sex toys and kill a few hours. This should be an innocent promotion.

Except for Pete the Not-a-Trucker.

The first time Patrick meets Pete, he ducks into the store and stands just inside the door looking uncertain. People do that their first time in a sex store. It’s cool.

Patrick’s restocking lube and calls out, “Can I help you?”

“Um,” says Pete. “Yeah, like, probably. I don’t know. Do you work here?”

Patrick is _surrounded_ by lube that he’s sorting through. He looks at it pointedly, and then back at Pete. “Yeah,” he says drily.

“Okay, cool,” says Pete, with a little reflexive shrug. “I don’t know, maybe you just really like lube, I don’t judge, man.”

Patrick supposes that’s nice of him. He steps out from his pile of lube and says, “What are you looking for?”

Pete exhales in a huff and casts a forlorn look around the store. “The fucking point of this aimless existence,” he says.

Patrick pauses. “Well, I can’t help you with that, but the porn section is that way.” He points.

Pete laughs, a laugh that sounds startled, punched out of him, and Patrick looks at him in surprise. “You’re funny,” says Pete. “I’m Pete.”

He’s probably just being nice but it puts Patrick on edge because you don’t introduce yourself to salespeople in stores so it’s usually a sign he’s about to be propositioned. He stiffens instinctively.

But Pete says, “I’m thinking a sex doll, maybe? We’re supposed to get some sort of gag gift for this stupid fucking send-off for my stupid fucking boss.”

Patrick says slowly, “They probably mean, like, weird socks and not a sex doll.”

“Weird socks are cool, he doesn’t deserve a cool gift.”

“Sex dolls can be cool,” says Patrick, because the store practices sex positivity and doesn’t knock any kinks.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Pete allows. “What is the least cool thing you sell?”

“Everything we sell is cool,” says Patrick politely.

“Hmm,” says Pete, and walks up and down the aisles.

Patrick goes back to his lube, waiting him out.

Pete comes back to him and says, “I don’t actually want my stupid fucking boss to have good sex.”

“Yeah, this is a weird store to be shopping in for your boss,” Patrick agrees.

“But I will take this cock ring,” says Pete.

Patrick tries not to quirk his lips in an ironic smile. People are always pretending to come into the store for one thing and then “accidentally” leaving with the thing they really wanted.

“Cool,” he says, and goes over to the cash register.

Pete is reading the sign as Patrick rings him up and says, “Hang on, it’s Tuesday.”

“Yes,” Patrick agrees.

“I’m a trucker,” says Pete.

Patrick looks at him. Truckers have a look. Pete doesn’t have it. “No, you’re not.”

“That is very prejudiced of you, sir,” Pete says. “How do you know I’m not a trucker?”

“Where’s your CDL?” asks Patrick.

“My what?” says Pete blankly.

Patrick snorts and rings Pete up for the full price.

“You’re rude and you drive a hard bargain, kid,” Pete tells him, taking out his credit card.

Patrick tears off his receipt and says, “Enjoy your cock ring, Mr. Wentz.”

Pete winks at him.

And comes back the following Tuesday.

This time Patrick is sorting through the condoms after a group of stupid kids flung them all over the place.

Pete leans against the shelf next to him and says, “Commercial Driver’s License.”

“Huh?” says Patrick.

“My CDL. Of course. Because of the fact that I’m a truck driver.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and keeps sorting through the condoms. “You’re not a truck driver.”

“Isn’t the customer always right?” asks Pete lightly, and then, to Patrick’s surprise, drops down and starts sorting condoms with him.

“Oh,” Patrick says in alarm, “you don’t have to—”

Pete shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t have anything better to do.”

Patrick hesitates, then says, “Still haven’t found a point to human existence?”

Pete laughs self-deprecatingly. “No. It’s pretty bleak.”

“Sex is a pretty good point,” suggests Patrick.

Pete looks at him and says earnestly, “But is sex _the_ point? Like, yeah, alright, whatever, I can fuck people from here to kingdom come, you know? But is that a reason to get up in the morning? Like, what the fuck point is there? Sex is just the same thing, over and over, touch a dick a certain way and a certain fucking result happens, everything is fucking pointless, nothing is interesting or surprising in any way, when’s the last time you were surprised _at all_?” Pete looks very serious.

Patrick has the very surprising thought that Pete has beautiful eyes. Gorgeous, striking eyes. He never before realized brown eyes could be that many colors all at once. And Patrick never has these thoughts about customers. So Patrick says honestly, hoarsely, “Now. I’m surprised right now.”

Pete blinks, caught off-guard. “Oh,” he says.

Patrick clears his throat, embarrassed. “And I just surprised you by saying that, so, you know, maybe life’s more interesting than you think,” says Patrick.

“Yeah,” says Pete slowly. “Maybe.”

***

Pete comes in the next Tuesday.

“I still don’t think you’re a trucker,” Patrick says. He’s taking vibrator inventory this time.

“Yeah, I know, you never give me a discount,” says Pete.

“You didn’t buy anything last week,” Patrick reminds him. “The only thing you bought was that cock ring for your boss. How’d that work out, by the way?”

“The cock ring was for _me_,” Pete corrects him.

“Okay, so how’d that work out?”

“Do you guarantee customer satisfaction here?” asks Pete, and leers at Patrick like that’s cute.

It’s fucking stupidly cute, ugh, even though it’s usually just gross when customers do that. But Patrick can’t help that he’s happy Pete seems somewhat less morose than he was. “Look,” Patrick says, “we get you most of the way there, it’s not our fault if you can’t find an orgasm after that.”

Pete grins. He’s got a grin as pretty as his eyes. Patrick frowns as he organizes the vibrators and wishes Pete would stop coming in because he’s _confusing_. “I got my boss a mug that read ‘I used to live in your balls.’”

Patrick, going over that in his head, stops frowning and sits back from the vibrators. “You… What?” he says, confused.

Pete sits on the floor next to him and nods. “Yup. Here, this one goes over there.” He hands a magic wand to Patrick.

“But…when did you live in his balls? Like, you’re supposed to give a mug like that to your dad.”

“I know.” Pete looks gleeful. “You should have _seen_ the look on that fucker’s face when he opened it. He had no idea what to make of it, but he didn’t want to admit he didn’t get it, so he just said, ‘Wow, Pete, thanks, this is great, that’s so clever,’ and then we took a picture of us with it.” Pete, to Patrick’s surprise, holds out his cell phone, and there’s a picture of Pete with an older besuited man, indeed holding a balls mug and giving a thumbs-up to the camera. Pete looks like the cat who caught the canary.

“Okay, I didn’t think there was an actual boss,” Patrick admits.

“I know. You’re a very skeptical person, but you work in a sex shop, so I guess that’s okay.”

Patrick feels thrown, from Pete’s apparent honesty about the boss thing, from _Pete_. He snaps, “Are you going to buy anything this week?”

“What do you recommend?” Pete asks.

“This one’s good,” Patrick says, picking a vibrator at random and shoving it at him.

“Cool,” Pete says affably. “Can I get my trucker discount?”

“You’re not a trucker,” Patrick tells him.

“You’re really mean,” Pete says. “I’d totally stop coming to this sex store if I could figure out any point to life beyond this sex store.”

***

Pete, on the following Tuesday, says, “Okay. That vibrator.”

Patrick’s dusting the sex futon, which is too expensive for a lot of people to really look at. He says, “Yeah?”

“_Fuck_ yeah,” says Pete, “give me another recommendation.”

Which, again, is not exactly what Patrick expected.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Um. So. What are you, like, into?” Ordinarily, this is not a question that gets Patrick embarrassed. He’s asked it a thousand times before. He doesn’t know why he blushes now, why it feels too personal and intimate for him to know.

“I don’t know,” answers Pete. “Expand my horizons.”

And Patrick talks to strangers about their sex lives _all day_, and he never, ever feels like it’s foreplay, he never, ever gets a dry mouth and sweaty palms, what the fuck is _wrong_ with him? He manages, “Um, well, do you like being punished?”

Pete frowns thoughtfully. “I mean. In bed? Not really. Like, in life I think I’m a fucking _glutton_ for punishment, I’m the biggest self-punishing failure in the universe, I will keep banging my head into the same brick wall as long as you want me to. I think I’d like a break from that in bed.”

There’s that edge to Pete again, that sadness lurking under his gleam, and it makes Patrick ache. “I’m sure you’re not a failure, I’m sure you’re much better at everything than you give yourself credit for.”

Pete lights up, those amber eyes shifting into pure gold, his smile like sunshine. “Aww, that’s nice of you,” he says.

Patrick swallows thickly and doesn’t say, _I suspect you’ve got more of a praise kink_.

***

Patrick does a thing he has never, ever done before, and comes thinking of a customer. Afterward, he pants up toward his bedroom ceiling and thinks, _Fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I going to do?_

But it was a pretty great jerk-off session, so, like, it feels like there’s no going back.

***

On the next Tuesday, Patrick carefully sets out a selection of sex toys he thinks Pete might like. He feels foolish as he does it. He’s never done this for a customer before. It feels super-personal.

He’s in the middle of it when an actual _bona fide_ trucker comes in, and Patrick has to actually stop to help him, and he’s in the middle of checking him out when Pete comes in. Patrick feels clumsy and slow as he fumbles with the customer’s change. It’s the first time he’s seen Pete since he vividly fantasized about shoving that vibrator into his ass and telling him how good he was, how excellent he was, Pete watching him with those wide gold eyes and falling apart under him. Patrick drops pennies all over the counter and tries very hard _not_ to think about that, what is wrong with his stupid brain.

“Happy Trucker Tuesday,” Patrick manages, when he’s finally able to hand the trucker his change.

The trucker honestly looks a little annoyed at him, so Patrick hopes the porn makes up for it.

Pete is standing in the aisle looking at the sex toys Patrick assembled for him. He gives Patrick a wry look when Patrick hurries over and says, “You never wish _me_ a happy Trucker Tuesday.”

“You’re not a trucker,” Patrick reminds him.

“Hmm,” Pete says, turning back to his curated sex toy selection. “This is quite a mess you’ve got in this aisle.”

Patrick blushes beet-red, he can feel it, and says, “Yeah, I haven’t gotten around to putting it all away yet,” because he doesn’t want to admit he was assembling it just for Pete.

Pete says, “I’ll help.” He reaches for the nearest toy, which happens to be anal beads, and pauses. “And maybe buy a couple.”

And Patrick swells with pride, like, totally the usual amount of pride for making a good sale, absolutely.

He is ringing Pete out, handing him his receipt, noting the fact that Pete didn’t go for the fleshlight, when he suddenly says, “Patrick.”

“Huh?” says Pete, tucking the receipt into his pocket and looking up at him from under his black bangs.

“My name is Patrick,” Patrick says.

Pete smiles, laugh-lines crinkling around his eyes. Fuck, he’s got _such_ a nice smile. “That’s a nice name,” he says.

“Thanks?” says Patrick uncertainly.

“But you still haven’t given me my trucker discount,” says Pete.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Get out of here,” he says.

***

The next time Pete comes in, Patrick has honestly forgotten it’s Tuesday. He should have been all excited for his favorite customer’s arrival, given how much Patrick thinks about Pete and his stupid smile, but Patrick’s distracted because he’s got a lead on a band that might need a drummer and he’s trying to polish his songs to be the best they can possibly be, and he’s leaned over his computer with his headphones on when Pete waves a hand in front of his face.

Patrick blinks and straightens and takes his headphones off. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

“I want you to know I could have stolen everything in this store. Well, maybe not that sex futon. That would have been ambitious. But everything _else_. So I think I should get some credit for that and that credit should be my trucker discount.”

“You’re not a trucker,” Patrick reminds him.

“Can I at least get some free condoms?” asks Pete.

And for the first time—for the first fucking time—it occurs to Patrick that Pete might have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or both or whatever. Not that it matters, because, like, Christ, it’s not like Patrick sits around daydreaming about dating Pete, like, Pete is just a guy who comes into his store and is nice enough and otherwise Patrick is bored and he _definitely doesn’t want to date Pete_, God, this is so ridiculous.

Patrick says as casually as possible, “Oh, got a hot date?”

Pete snorts. “Hope springs eternal,” he says, which…Patrick can’t tell how much of a joke it is. “So what are you up to, Patrick?” He says his name with special relish, the “ck” sound a sharp click at the end of it.

“Oh, I don’t know, like, mostly I work,” babbles Patrick, hoping that it comes across how very single and available he is.

Pete looks amused. “I meant like, what are you doing with this computer that you were so lost in it you weren’t manning the store? The strap-ons are a godawful mess, what would your boss say?”

Pete’s teasing and Patrick knows it but he still glances uneasily toward the strap-on section and says, “Did you want a strap-on?”

“No,” says Pete, “I have my own dick. And it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

It isn’t entirely that Patrick doesn’t want to tell him. He just… Pete makes him feel so confused all the time. He pulls the brim of his hat down a little and says, “I’m, like, listening to my demos.”

He’s not looking at Pete, so he has to try to read his tone when he says, “Your demos?”

“Yeah, like, I don’t know, there’s this band looking for a drummer and, like, I don’t want to work in a sex store forever, so, like, yeah.” Patrick goes to close his laptop.

Pete reaches out and encircles his wrist with two fingers. Patrick stares, because Pete is _touching_ him, and that…shouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s a huge deal. Pete says, “Wait, I’d love to hear them. Can I hear them?”

Patrick steals a glance upward at him. Pete looks sincere, curious, kind. He says haltingly, “They’re not that great.”

“I bet that’s not true,” says Pete. “Let me hear them.”

“Do you know anything about music?” Patrick asks skeptically. He just feels wildly uncertain about this whole thing.

Pete smiles at him. “Can I hear the demos?”

After a moment of hesitation, Patrick unplugs his headphones and lets the demos ring forth from his computer.

Pete listens for maybe ten seconds before he says abruptly, “Hang on. Pause this.”

That doesn’t sound promising. Patrick pauses the demo and says quickly, “Okay, look, let’s pretend that you didn’t—”

“Is that you singing on there?” Pete demands.

Patrick doesn’t know what to make of that question. “Well, yeah,” he answers.

“Patrick, what the fuck,” Pete breathes. “Hit play again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Play me the rest,” says Pete.

He’s got these _eyes_, you see. And this sweet tone. This kind request of his.

Patrick plays him the rest.

When the demos are done, Pete’s smile takes up his whole face. He looks at Patrick and says, “_Patrick_.”

It’s a nice way to say his name. Patrick’s going to think a lot about that. Like, while his hand’s on his dick. Great.

Patrick is too busy thinking about the future jerk-off fodder to answer.

So Pete keeps talking. Pete says, “I’ve got a band that needs a singer.”

And Patrick—Patrick doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He’s so startled he almost can’t respond. He manages finally, “Huh? What?”

“I’ve got a band,” Pete repeats. “We need a singer.”

“No, you don’t,” Patrick says, because, like, _what_?

“Yes, I do,” Pete says patiently. He’s smiling at him, that stupid, fucking, awful smile that he has, ugh.

“I don’t sing,” Patrick says.

“You obviously sing,” Pete says, “I just heard you.”

“Yeah, but that’s just… I mean, anyone can do that.”

Pete lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “No. They definitely can’t.”

“I don’t… What? I’m a drummer.”

“Sure,” Pete agrees. “I’m sure you’re a great drummer. But you are an _incredible_ singer.”

“Okay,” says Patrick. “Look. You come in here, with your little trucker scheme, and your weird story about your weird boss, and, I mean, you win, you’re charming, okay, you’re totally, like, yeah, but you don’t need to do _this_. _This_ is a step too far.”

Pete looks quizzical. “What?”

Patrick’s words are like an avalanche crashing out of him, he can’t stop them. “I know what people think, I know they think the sex store clerk must be easy, half the people straight-up think I’ll just sell a blowjob to the highest bidder, you don’t need to lie to me about my music, like, that’s just _mean_, you already had me, okay? You already had me with your stupid eyes and your stupid smile and the stupid way you seem to think I might ever think you’re a trucker, you already fucking had me, you don’t have to insult me and make fun of me and—and—_condescend_ to me by pretending to think I’m some kind of great singer, like, just don’t, have a little respect for me, okay?”

Pete stares at him. He blinks slowly. He says, “Wow, that’s a lot to…”

Patrick feels embarrassed. Patrick feels hot and angry. Patrick just wants Pete to _go away_. He fucking _liked_ Pete. And maybe there was no way for Pete to know that Patrick’s music is just off-limits as a casual flirtation topic but, damn it, Patrick can’t help how he feels about his music and he can’t help how _hurt_ he feels, how much he wishes he could pretend this didn’t just happen, or rewind and put the laptop away before Pete came in. “Are you going to buy something?” he asks, moving things around the cash register in jerky, unhappy motions. “Like, please just go fucking buy something like a normal customer.”

“Patrick,” Pete starts.

“I can’t believe I told you my fucking name,” Patrick mutters. “Just _go_.”

Pete hesitates, then he disappears down an aisle of the store.

Patrick, frustrated, closes his laptop and wishes he could just bury his face in his hands and not look up again, but he’s got to be a professional here. A professional sex store worker. That’s what he’s aiming for. Just because his silly nascent crush made fun of his music by pretending he had some kind of super-talent, like, he doesn’t need to go all to pieces.

Pete comes back with the foot-long butt plug they sell that Patrick’s always wondered if anyone uses, because no one’s ever bought it.

“This is what you want?” Patrick asks dubiously.

“No, it’s what I’m buying so I can talk to you,” says Pete.

“If I give you the trucker discount, will you just drop the entire subject?” Patrick begs.

“I wasn’t making fun of you. Your voice is incredible, Patrick. It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s a voice. I already told you, you don’t need to—”

“I’m not flattering you or whatever fucking thing you think is happening here. I’ve got a band. It needs a singer. You’re a good singer. Maybe you want to come and meet everyone and show off those pipes?”

Patrick regards him uncertainly. This seems unlikely, right? His weird customer crush magically has a band and magically wants him to be in it? It’s like Pete just casually said, _Also, I’m worth millions of dollars and I’m giving it all to you_. Like, _that’s_ how much music means to Patrick. And Patrick’s worried that Pete doesn’t get that. If Patrick shows up and this is all just a ploy to get Patrick to Pete’s weird sex dungeon, then, aside from being about to be sliced up and pickled or whatever, Patrick will also have to deal with the crash of this _dream_.

Pete says, “What’s the hesitation here? Do you really think I’m asking you to come meet my band so you can sing and, what, we all make fun of you? What about me the past few weeks makes you think I would do that?”

Pete looks and sounds hurt, and that’s the worst part. Like they’ve been building up some kind of fucking special relationship just because he keeps coming into Patrick’s sex store, like, okay, they _have_, but this is such a weird situation.

Patrick admits, “No, I think, like, you might turn out to be a serial killer and this is how you lure me in.”

Pete looks down at the butt plug on the counter between them. “With a butt plug? I’m luring you in a with a huge butt plug?”

“No,” says Patrick, slowly.

“My plan was to hope you liked music and then talk about my band?” Pete persists.

“I don’t know,” says Patrick, “like, what were the odds you were going to have a band?” _When that kind of makes you the perfect man_, Patrick adds silently, because he’s never saying that out loud.

Pete looks at Patrick, a gentle, golden look, a tiny smile playing around his lips. Patrick finds it hard to believe he’s a serial killer in the face of that look, but that’s probably exactly how serial killers lure in their victims.

Patrick says uncertainly, “What?” because he doesn’t want to admit that look is working and he’s all twitchy with how much he’d like to fucking kiss that look.

“Patrick,” Pete says. “I went into this sex store that day because everything seemed so fucking hopeless, I thought to myself, There is no point to life, I will walk into this middle-of-nowhere sex store and prove to myself how pointless life is, it will be drab and depressing and that will settle the question once and for all, how there’s no point. That’s what I was thinking.”

“Why would this sex store be the ultimate arbiter in whether or not life has a point?” asks Patrick.

“No reason,” Pete replies. “Like, there was no reason for that. My irrational, stupid brain decided it. That’s all. Random chance. Which is the _point_.”

“The point?” echoes Patrick.

“The point is what were the odds I would choose this store as the final decisionmaker in my crisis, and what were the odds I would walk in and there would be _you_? Don’t talk to me about odds, Patrick, because honestly, a bunch of astonishing things have already happened. So yeah. I’ve got a band that needs a singer, and you’ve got a singer inside of you. Let’s ride this fate wave a little longer.”

“Fate wave?” says Patrick faintly, because he feels persuaded, he feels won over, he feels like Pete _always_ does this, he just effortlessly makes Patrick think that he makes sense, it’s a miracle Patrick’s held out on the trucker discount for this long.

“Wave of fate,” Pete amends, grinning now, like he knows his victory is at hand. “Something like that.” Pete picks up the butt plug and gestures with it for effect.

It’s alarming.

“Put that down,” Patrick says, “you’re scaring me.”

“Aww, are you scared of a little butt plug?” Pete coos at him, and waggles it in Patrick’s face.

“It’s not _little_,” Patrick points out. “It’s fucking huge.”

“You need to fuck guys with better dicks,” says Pete.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Don’t even try to pretend you can rival that, not even in your wildest dreams.”

Pete laughs and puts the butt plug down. “Come meet my band.”

“I’m not going to walk straight into your murder room,” Patrick says.

“I don’t have a murder room,” Pete denies, amused.

“That’s what you’d say if you had a murder room,” Patrick replies.

Pete laughs again, like that’s a hilarious joke instead of a very real and important worry on Patrick’s part.

Patrick says, “Have your band come to my house.”

“So you think it’s safer to tell me where you live?” says Pete, raising his eyebrows.

He has a point. Patrick for some reason thought it seemed less likely Pete would kill him at _his_ home, as opposed to whatever killing room he might have had already set up.

So Patrick doubles down. “Yes,” he says stubbornly. “If you really have a band, I’ll know before I open up the door. And if you show up by yourself, I’ll know you’re there to kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Jesus Christ,” Pete says good-naturedly. “But I like that you think I might, it makes me feel dangerous. Dangerous like this butt plug.” Pete waves it around again.

“Are you really going to buy that?” asks Patrick.

“If you give me the trucker discount,” says Pete.

“Keep dreaming,” says Patrick.

***

Patrick doesn’t actually expect Pete to show up. He’s still pretty sure this is all some sort of elaborate joke at his expense. That is so much more likely than the universe suddenly delivering unto him a hot guy with a band who wants him.

But Pete does show up, with a curly-haired dude. Patrick peers through the window at them and calculates the likelihood that this kid is really in a band with Pete, as opposed to some kid Pete kidnapped on the way over and forced to pretend he’s in a band.

Then the kid takes a hit off a joint he’s holding in his hand and Patrick decides that maybe he really is in the band.

Patrick opens the door.

Pete says brightly, “Patrick! You gave me your real address!”

Patrick ignores him and says to the new guy, “You can’t smoke that in the house, my mom’ll freak out.” Like the loser that he is.

The guy just shrugs and stubs out the joint, though.

Pete says pleasantly, “Can we come in, Patrick?”

Patrick looks at Pete. He’s been trying not to look at Pete, because fucking Pete is like looking into the fucking sun. He has to squint, he’s so fucking pretty, it’s so fucking annoying.

Patrick is possibly a little nervous.

“Um,” says Patrick, betraying his nervousness.

Why the _fuck_ is he nervous? Pete is probably a serial killer, not a guy in a band. Patrick should stop being nervous. A serial killer he can handle.

Pete steps right past Patrick into the house. “So,” he says. “This is Joe. He plays guitar.”

“Yo,” Joe says.

“Hi,” Patrick says uncertainly.

“Joe’s so psyched to hear you sing,” Pete says, beaming from ear to ear.

Joe looks meh about hearing him sing, but whatever.

“Um,” says Patrick, because he knew this was happening, and _still_, he can’t quite believe it. “Right. Yeah. Totally.” And then he pulls on his earlobe, like an _idiot_, because, like, he doesn’t even know what to _do_. He had this vague plan to sing “Through Being Cool,” but that seems like a stupid plan now with Pete and a stranger watching him.

“Hey,” Pete says suddenly, “there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Patrick blinks at him. “Wanted to ask me?”

“Yeah, about…that thing I bought last time.”

The foot-long butt plug? thinks Patrick dazedly. “Huh?”

“Come here,” Pete says, and takes his hand and pulls him toward the back of the house.

That leaves a stranger alone and unattended in his mom’s living room, like, whatever, Patrick’s probably hysterical at this point.

“You’re looking a little nervous here, buddy,” Pete says heartily, once they’re out of earshot.

Patrick glares at him. “I’m not a singer, Pete, I’ve never done this before, I don’t actually know what I’m supposed to do and—”

Pete kisses him. Pete _fucking kisses him_. It’s a soft sweet kiss, a press of Pete’s lips to his, gentle, lovely. It’s not at all the way Patrick would ever have expected to be kissed by a guy stalking him at the sex store, and it disarms him. He melts against the wall behind him, lets Pete kiss him again, and it’s deeper the second time but somehow it’s still not heated, it’s so careful, it makes Patrick feel so fucking precious, it lodges something deep in his heart, a clean slice like a piece of shrapnel settling in there. Patrick wants to tear his hands into Pete’s hair and haul him closer and devour him but also Patrick wants to be kissed like _this_ forever.

Pete pulls back, and they both breathe raggedly into the whisper of space between them. Patrick stares at him, at his golden eyes, at the lips that were just against his. He whispers, “What was that for?”

Pete whispers back, “Calm you down?”

“You thought that would calm me down?” Patrick repeats in disbelief.

“Yes?” offers Pete.

Patrick considers. He does kind of feel better. “Maybe.”

Pete smiles at him, traces his fingertips along Patrick’s sideburns. He says, his voice a tiny bit louder, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. I hope it was okay.”

“If this is all an elaborate way of asking me out,” says Patrick, “you could have just done that. You didn’t need the whole ‘tell Patrick he’s got a great voice and I’ve got a band’ strategy.”

“That’s not a strategy,” Pete denies. “Those are two true statements. The kissing thing is a third true statement. They’re all completely unrelated.”

“And where does the butt plug come into it?” Patrick asks gravely.

“Oh, I mean, wherever you want,” Pete flirts back, “it is, like, ready for use anytime.”

It feels weirdly good to be flirting with Pete in his mom’s house, just kissed. It feels _right_.

Pete says, “Okay, let’s go sing a song for Joe. What do you say?”

And that feels right, too.

***

The next time Pete comes into the sex store, Patrick’s finishing up a demonstration of a clit massager for a woman who is watching his demonstration closely. Pete winks at him and slips past her into the store, and Patrick tries not to be too obviously distracted, trying to refocus on the task at hand.

He’s going to look for Pete once he’s done with the customer but then the phone rings and he’s answering questions about what bondage options they have available at the store when Pete comes up holding the dobby horse shaped like a cock and balls.

Patrick lifts his eyebrows at him and finishes up the conversation and hangs up the phone and looks at Pete and says, “So you want to buy the knobby horse?”

“Oh, my God, I was _hoping_ that’s what it was called!” exclaims Pete, delighted. “And yes, I _definitely_ want to buy this, I cannot believe this wasn’t the first thing you showed me in this store. And you call yourself a sex salesman.” Pete tsks dramatically.

“Sex _store_ salesman,” Patrick corrects him.

“Right, but also, don’t sell yourself short, you have some pretty quality sex on offer, too,” says Pete.

Patrick blushes. No one makes him blush as much as Pete. It’s annoying.

As he scans in the knobby horse, Pete leans on the counter and says, “Soooo tell me more about what you know about clits.”

“I know my way around a prostate, too,” Patrick replies primly.

“Do you ever,” says Pete appreciatively.

Patrick gives him the trucker discount.


End file.
